


Once Upon a Time in Bodie

by jacksqueen16



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1870s, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Art Inspired, Azazel is an asshole, Bisexual Dean, California, Destiel - Freeform, Drug Use, Era-Compliant Homophobia, Gen, Ghost Town, Guardian Angels, Historical AU, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Profound Bond, Reverse Big Bang, Wild West, slight Sam/Jess, soul mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 21:39:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5886253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksqueen16/pseuds/jacksqueen16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>California, 1878. Dean and Sam are called by a stranger named Castiel to a boomtown, where they must stop a spirit who has caused the death of three women. But Dean feels a connection to the man who claims to be an angel of the Lord, something long forgotten and deeper than he can understand. </p><p>Part of the Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Upon a Time in Bodie

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely art by im_the_dean (aka Parker Rosen) inspired what you are about to read. I knew that I had to create a Wild West AU that was worthy of our favorite boys and I hope I’ve managed to accomplish that.
> 
> Our story is set in California in the late 1870s. The Golden State was admitted to the US in 1850, but still bore remarkable resemblances to untamed territory the further one was from the coast and/or boomtowns. The Gold Rush of 1849 had brought an influx of eager gold miners from the East and Midwest to join the established settlers, Hispanics, and (sadly displaced and abused) Native Americans. Post-Civil War California was nearly as diverse as it is today. Immigrants from all over the world were finding homes in the ever-growing cities of San Francisco and Los Angeles, and Chinese workers were brought in to help build railroads. A melting pot before its time, California’s citizens were as diverse as its geography. What better place for demons, ghosts, and witches to wreak havoc? 
> 
> The majority of the fic takes place in Bodie, which is today a well-known ghost town and protected California Historical Landmark. It evolved from an insignificant mining camp to a Wild West boomtown after gold was discovered in 1876. I have deviated from fact in a few areas (i.e. the Methodist church I reference wasn’t built until 1882, and the cemetery was actually on the outskirts of town). I have also taken a few liberties with terminology; for example, Dean and Sam still refer to each other as jerk and bitch, although the term “jerk” as we use it today did not become commonplace until the early 20th century. There are some other errors as well, such as the inclusion of the word “civvy” which was not in use until 1889. All that being said, the 1870s are a fascinating time in American history. If you like the Old West or ghost towns, I do highly recommend reading about Bodie and checking out the lovely photos on the [State Historic Park website](http://www.parks.ca.gov/?page_id=509).
> 
> Check out my playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/jacksqueen16/playlist/0guaS9GQxFrVas2xPA3ci3).
> 
> A million thanks to my beta/cousin/flatmate/boss The Collectress, who always pushes me to write even when I'm the Queen of Procrastinators. Hugs and kisses to my bro Collectiva Diva, who encouraged me even as she faced her own looming deadline. And last but not least, this story is for Parker, without whom I wouldn't have had the idea in the first place.

**Prologue:**

When the sun was low in the foothills,

And the mist crept over the barns,

Came the brothers with the salt in their guns,

Roamin’ valleys and campsites and farms.

The cowboys called them the Searchers

When they got rid of the demons in cattle.

The farmers gave their beds and their bread

When they saved crop and stead from their saddles.

They wandered as wild as horses,

Taking no place for their own,

The wide open space was their solace,

The tumbleweeds walls of their home.

They hunted the witches and skin walkers

(Whatever went bump in the night)

The brothers, Sam and Dean Winchester,

Always were up for a fight.

When the stars went back where they came from,

And the air was warm from the sun,

With the smell of the rich honeyed earth in their nostrils

Came the brothers with salt in their guns.

 

**California 1878**

**Part 1:**

There was a sweetness in the air between towns. Full of the promise of riches for some, it spoke of blessed solitude to Dean Winchester. Back home in Kansas, things were different—folks were honest, but nosey. Everyone in Lawrence knew about the Winchesters. About the accident with the young wife and mother, and the father who couldn’t stop grieving. It wasn’t pleasant growing up with whispers in your ears, and Dean had been glad to be rid of it. In the west, folks minded their own business. It was self and family first.

Where these self-same 49ers and gold hunters saw the opportunity to discover their weight in gold, Dean and his brother Sam saw freedom. The ability to come and go as they wished, to live as they pleased. He knew he could never go back to anything else; the wide open spaces of the west were his home now, even without John Winchester to guide them.

The brothers sometimes went days without speaking, their words used up from working cases. That was the trouble with newly settled territory; it meant work for the Winchesters. Disturbed burial grounds, ancient gods awakened, vengeful spirits angered after unlawful deaths—the Gold Rush had it all, and more. Just when they thought they had seen everything, they were proven wrong. Monsters came in all shapes and sizes, in an endless supply from the frightening to the horrifying. The Winchesters had escaped Death more than once, and counted themselves lucky for it. Maybe it was the hand of the Almighty who had spared them, but there was no way to know for certain.

Dean took a deep breath as they rode out of the small settlement where they had just put an end to a vampire. Little more than three farms close-together, and a handful of houses, the town had been in no way equipped to deal with anything supernatural. Things had gotten out of hand for the settlers, and thereby for the Winchesters. Dean hated messy cases, but what was a hunter to do? The vampire was ganked, the brothers’ stomachs had been fed, and they were back where they belonged: on the road.

 _If_ there was a road, which in this case there was not. He steered Darlin’ around an outcrop of rocks, hoping that she wouldn’t lose a shoe. There was no way in heaven he wanted to turn around. He needed a night under the stars, not under another stranger’s roof.

The clip-clop of Sam’s horse was close behind. Dean looked over his shoulder. “Rocks,” he said.

“I do have eyes, as it happens,” said Sam.

“Yer a bitch, you know that?”

“Jerk.”

Dean smiled and turned back in the saddle. Adjusting his black Stetson, he clicked his tongue at Darlin’ before beginning to whistle the opening notes of a song. It wasn’t long before Sam’s off-key baritone provided the lilting words.

They broke their fast in the saddle, eating jerky and fresh bread; tokens from the farmers whose lives they’d saved. It was hours before Sam spoke again.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Never a good sign.”

“Dean.”

The elder Winchester sighed. “What’re you thinkin’?”

“We ought to head up to Sacramento, maybe. Or maybe a little east? Somewhere we can take a break, gamble a little…sleep in a nice bed,” suggested Sam as he brought his mount closer to Dean’s.

“Haven’t you had enough of beds?” asked Dean.

“No. I’ve had enough of waking up and digging dirt out of my ribs.”

Dean pressed his lips together. “You got a problem with the way I do things?”

Sam hesitated. “No, not exactly. But Dean, we do need cash. When was the last time you got to play cards with someone besides me? A little poker wouldn’t hurt a fly. We worked seven cases back to back. I need…something. Some good whiskey and a little company.”

Dean leaned down to snatch a blade of the long wheatgrass their horses were wading through. He stuck it between his teeth and chewed for a moment. He would do anything in the world for his baby brother, but what was the use in letting Sam know that? It’d go straight to his big head.

“I could do with a little hustlin’,” he finally agreed. “Sacramento it is.”

↞↠

They arrived just after nightfall, and even Dean had to admit that the idea of a meal and a tall glass of booze served up by a pretty saloon maid was appealing. Sacramento huddled in the valley it was named for, brown and whitewashed buildings sprouting up like a bunch of pins in a sewing basket. Dean was certain that it was nothing like the capitol cities back east, but it had everything most men wanted: gambling, girls, and gold.

It was easier to navigate than most other cities the boys visited, laid out in a grid pattern unlike the ramshackle boomtowns, where miners and opportunistic businessmen put down saloons and hotels wherever the ground was moderately flat. They guided the horses through Chinatown, inhaling the exotic scents that wafted from open windows. As they passed the fancier parts of town, the imposing Orleans Hotel and sweet smelling French harlots with roses in their locks, Dean wondered if they would ever have enough money to stay in a nice place like that. Both he and his pocketbook doubted it very much.

No, it was the Mexican Dancehouse and Nag’s Head Saloon for the Winchesters. Cheap accommodations and a show or two. Most of the time, they kept their eyes peeled for card games. Hunting didn’t provide much of an income, save a few free meals, and cash had to come from somewhere. John Winchester, a master cheat, had been sure to teach his eldest son every trick in the book. Sam was a good poker player too, but had a mind more suited for edification and research. The younger Winchester had once hinted that he would like to study more than the books on lore he carried in his saddlebags, but John had put those dreams to rest long ago.

Dean chose an inexpensive hotel, but one next to a livery. If there was anything he was willing to spend his ill-gotten money on, it was Darlin’. She’d been his father’s horse before him, purchased from another hunter named Bobby Singer. Bobby’s farm was a refuge for hunters in bad times, and one of the only other houses the Winchesters had dared to call home after leaving Kansas.

After securing a room for one night and leaving Sam to bathe, Dean beaded downstairs for a spot of supper. The saloon across the street had been visited by the Winchesters before, some years ago, and Dean remembered one young dancer quite fondly. He never paid for company, if he could help it—his smile won him more affection than coin.

The Golden Shoe was a rowdy affair, filled to the brim with people from all walks of life. The Gold Rush had appealed to all sorts, and the 49ers were equally matched by astute businessmen and auspicious women. The stage at the rear of the building showcased two young girls in bright petticoats and corsets, flipping their skirts up to show white drawers. The men around the stage hollered and whistled over the upbeat piano music. Dean watched for a moment before opting to take advantage of the unoccupied tables near the bar. He asked the bar maid for whatever was fresh from the kitchen, and a bit of whiskey. When she slurred “whatever you want, honey,” he could smell bitter smoke on her breath. “And a pack of whatever cigarettes you’re hiding, sweetheart,” he called after her.

He was halfway through his meal of beans and bratwurst when it happened. Dean was used to the hairs on the back of his neck standing up—good instincts were part of his line of work, after all—but it usually didn’t happen in the middle of a saloon. He was being watched something that wasn’t human, and he wasn’t sure what he could do about it with so many people around. He ate a few more bites and washed everything down with a gulp of liquor before scanning the room. Monsters looked like people, more often than not, and he thought that maybe it was the presence of a shapeshifter trying to blend in that was making his skin crawl.

Everyone in the saloon appeared normal, but appearances could be deceiving. Dean slapped down a few coins for his food and drink, taking a good look at the bar maid. It sure as hell wasn’t her; her eyes were shiny from booze, not the abilities of a shifter.  

He tilted back in his chair, lighting a cigarette. As the smoke curled around his body, he felt it again: a stare at the back of his head, a prickling across his flesh. Dean turned to see a pair of blue eyes gazing at him from the other side of the batwing doors.

“Bingo,” Dean muttered. Pushing away from the table, he tipped the bar maid another two bits.

“Thanks, doll,” she said.

“Listen, honey, you ever seen that gent there?” Dean motioned with his eyes to the saloon doors.

The blonde glanced at the blue-eyed man, who still hadn’t come inside. “Sure ain’t.”

“Mm. Thanks anyway.”

The man hadn’t so much as breathed, it looked like, his eyes staying riveted to Dean’s every movement. He’d never seen a shifter act that way, but Dean knew better than to assume things about the supernatural. He started to make his way through the crowd, his hand grazing the pistol safe in its holster. He was a quick draw, and the gun was loaded with silver. If the shifter so much as—

The stranger jerked backwards as an older rancher in a wide brimmed hat clapped him on the shoulder. “Goin’ in or comin’ out, son? Make up yer mind.” The rancher shoved past the shifter, the batwing doors swinging in his wake. The stranger stepped further back, encased in shadow, but Dean could still feel his eyes.

Determined, Dean pushed past the last few people between him the doors, nearly getting beer spilled on him in the process. For half a second, he was tempted by the poker game going on in the corner, but he heard his father’s voice in the back of his mind. _Work comes first, Dean-o_.

He stepped through the doors, eyes searching the darkness. The light that spilled out of the saloon was dim, but it was enough to see that the stranger was waiting for him. The unearthly stare continued, and something twisted deep in Dean’s gut. This creature was no shifter—this was something more powerful.

“Ever considered taking a photograph, buddy? I hear tell they last ages,” he said.

The man blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“The way you’re starin’, makes me think you’re tryin’ to commit me to memory. What do you want?” Dean demanded, his voice low.

The man shifted on his feet, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “I have been searching for you, Dean Winchester.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know many things about you. I also need your help.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “What are you?”

The man smiled. “You shall know in time. Until then, suffice it to say that your...skillset...and that of your brother Samuel is needed.”

Dean swallowed. “What the hell do you know about my brother?”

“Enough.”

“Are you a shifter?”

“No.”

“Then what are you? I…” Dean looked around before continuing. “I know you ain’t human. And let me tell you somethin’, pal, my brother and I are in the business of killin’ things that ain’t human. So if you do know about us, then you know askin’ for help is dumber than a dog tryin’ to climb a tree.”

“I am not a monster, Dean,” the man said. “I need you to trust me.”

“Then you gotta give me somethin’ to work with. I don’t trust you further than I could throw you. I’ve got half a mind to shoot you right here and now.”

The man cocked his head to the side. “Your brother would not react this way. Samuel Winchester is not opposed to the idea of letting certain creatures live, despite what you say about annihilating what is not human. For example, that werewolf he was reluctant to kill…”

Dean’s heart skipped a beat. It was one thing for a monster intelligent enough to possess a human body to know their names. Anyone could ask a few questions here and there. But to know about the woman Sam had fallen in love with a few years back was another.

“Are you a demon?”

“No. Quite the opposite. My name is Castiel.”

↞↠

Dean couldn’t quite remember the walk back to the hotel room, but then, no one had ever told him they were an Angel of the Lord before.

“They’re _real_?” Sam exclaimed as Dean paced back and forth.

“Look, Sam, I’m pretty sure the poor bastard is confused or somethin’, cause in all our days, have we ever seen hide or hair of anythin’ remotely angelic? No. Now, there’s no question he’s...somethin’...but I don’t think angel is it.”

Sam was flipping through his worn Bible, scanning the faded words. “How do you know he’s not just a man, then?”

Dean hesitated. “I dunno. I just know he ain’t human. I can feel it.”

“So, which is it? If he isn’t a human, and claims to be an angel, then maybe he actually is one. We should probably listen to what he has to say.”

Dean rubbed his hands over his face, feeling the beginnings of a beard. “All right, all right. We’ll listen. But only after testin’ him. Holy water, the whole bit. He knows things about us, Sam, lots of things. The only other creature I can think of is a demon.”

Sam bit his lip as he looked up from the holy book. “Or ghost possession, maybe?”

“Why would a ghost ask us for a hand? This whole thing is crazier than a catamount walkin’ on two legs. Maybe it’s a trap.”

“What monster would set a trap for us? If this _Castiel_ wanted us dead, wouldn’t he have done it already?”

Dean’s head whipped toward the closed door. “He’s here.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “How do you—”

“Your brother can sense my presence,” said a deep, scratchy voice.

The Winchesters both jumped, hands on pistols. “Jesus Christ Almighty, whadja do that for?” Dean shouted.

“You ought not take the name of my Father in vain, Dean.”

“You ain’t gonna tell me what to do, all right?” Dean gripped his gun more tightly. “How the hell did you get in here, anyway?”

“Walls cannot keep my kind out,” said Castiel. “I apologize for startling you.”

Dean looked at his brother. Sam’s pistol hung limply in his hand, his eyes wide with awe. “Are you really an angel?”

“Yes.”

“Why can Dean tell when you’re around, but I can’t?”

Castiel turned his gaze to the eldest Winchester, and Dean felt a strange warmth spread through him. “Because we have a profound bond,” said the creature.

Dean’s breath came faster. “Listen, I ain’t got no bonds with nobody. Now speak your piece before one of us pumps you full of lead.”

Castiel looked back at Sam. “I was explaining to your brother downstairs that there is a situation which requires your assistance. In the town of Bodie, there have been three unexplained deaths at the hands of a vengeful spirit.”

Dean set his pistol down, reaching for a flask of holy water. Castiel stopped speaking, a small laugh escaping his full lips. “Test me if you will, Dean Winchester. I know you will not listen until you are satisfied.” He turned toward Dean, holding out a hand. Dean clenched his jaw, and poured a stream of water over the pale flesh.

Nothing.

Castiel shook off the droplets. “Content?”

“Not on your life, buddy. So holy water doesn’t burn you. You could still be somethin’ else. Sam, get the knife.”

Castiel sighed. “We do not have the luxury of time.” With his exhale, the candles in the room began to sputter.

“Dean?” Sam was pointing his pistol at Castiel for the first time.

“I—wait. It’s okay, Sam…” Dean wasn’t sure what made him say it, but there was something familiar about the energy that was suddenly filling the small room. The warmth was back, winding through his chest, coiling into a spool of intimacy he had forgotten. The small beds began to shake, and the gas lamps flickered before giving out.

Something like thunder filled the air, and Dean saw the shadow of enormous wings behind Castiel. Sam dropped his pistol.

Then the energy was gone, the room still, and Castiel’s eyes were on Dean. “Shall we begin?” he asked.

 

**Part 2:**

It was nearly 200 miles from Sacramento to Bodie, which meant a four day journey for their new acquaintance to explain himself. He didn’t have a horse; at least, he didn’t when they left first thing the next day. Then suddenly, there was one. A white stallion whose owner seemed compelled to give Castiel his only steed on the morning of departure. Dean was dubious about a so-called angel who had to ride a horse to get someplace. “Why can’t the Almighty just...I dunno, zap us there or somethin’? Save us the trip?” he’d asked grumpily when they were ten miles out. Castiel had smiled, changing the subject back to the matter at hand.  

The stranger was a fountain of information when it came to the new case, but tight-lipped about his own involvement. He claimed to have been gathering details on the situation for months, but was not allowed to intervene. “Orders,” he’d explained when Sam pressed for particulars about how angels operated.

When it came down to brass tacks, the case wasn’t that different from other ones the brothers had tackled. A rogue crossroads demon had been traveling from town to town, manipulating tortured spirits into terrorizing citizens in order to wheedle deals out of people who otherwise wouldn’t have been tempted. His latest victims were the folks of Bodie, who were being persecuted by the ghost of a woman they called La Llorona—the weeper.

The ritual of travel should have put Dean at ease, but he felt more out of place than ever. There was something about the stranger that he couldn’t shake. The familiarity with which Castiel treated him was one thing—the way Dean felt drawn to the angel was another. The more he thought about it, the worse his mood became. He was aware of Castiel’s every breath, could feel the shifts in his presence and emotions as though they were his own. The phrase “profound bond” echoed in his head like a bell, and the more he tried to forget about it, the louder it became.

By the beginning of the fourth day, Dean’s outlook on the entire situation had soured. If there was anything he loathed, it was the notion of the inexplicable. Though he and Sam dealt with the perplexing and the uncanny for a living, Dean always knew where he stood with the creatures others couldn’t understand. But as far as he knew, there had been no anomaly in his own life, until the appearance of Castiel. He’d never felt a connection with a newcomer like that, especially not another man. And he definitely didn’t want to linger on the fact that the more hours they spent together, the stronger the pleasant tingling in the back of his mind and in the pit of his stomach got. (Although on the third day, he’d spent most of the afternoon wondering about the gender of angels before shoving the thoughts as far away as he could.)

As he lay in his bedroll, the sunrise peaking over the hill, he resolved to tamper down his discomfort as much as possible. Sam was over the moon at the idea of angels walking the earth, and was more than excited to tackle a case at the behest of a warrior of God. His eyes slid over to where his brother lay, still sound asleep, brown hair sticking up at every angle. _You can last a few more days. For Sam. And then you say goodbye to Castiel forever_.

Even as the thought passed through his mind, Dean could feel the eyes of the angel on his back. The creature didn’t seem to need sleep, opting to keep watch during the night for thieves. Even though Dean woke every few hours from sheer force of habit, Castiel declined any offers to switch posts. Dean was starting to think he never needed rest. Or food. Or water. Although he had obligingly nibbled at the food that was offered him, he didn’t seem to like it or want it. _One more oddity in a million_ , thought Dean as he rolled over and sat up.

“Good morning Dean,” said Castiel. “I trust you slept adequately well.”

Dean stretched, relishing the feel of his neck and back popping. “Er. Yeah. Sure.”

Castiel nodded, solemn and formal. He was sitting as stiff as a ramrod, hands on his knees. The words escaped Dean’s mouth before he could stop them. “Ain’t you uncomfortable sittin’ like that?”

Castiel frowned. “This vessel no longer feels discomfort.”

“Well you’re makin’ me nervous. Relax, for God’s sake.”

A chuckle from Sam’s bedroll drew their attention. “Wake up on the wrong side of the fire, Dean?” asked the younger Winchester as he rubbed his face.

“Shut up,” said Dean, stoking the fire.

They didn’t speak for the remainder of the trip, although Dean pushed the horses faster than he had the previous days. He could tell that Sam and Castiel were exchanging glances behind his back, but he shoved on, urging Darlin’ closer to Bodie, closer to the case at hand, and closer to leaving the angel in the past.

↞↠

High in the hills near the California border, Bodie sprawled over patches of Indian rice grass and sagebrush. Though small yellow wildflowers sprouted haphazardly across the mounds, pushing their way through the wild purplish turf, there were hardly any trees to be seen. It was a striking difference to the intense foliage and towering sequoias of Yosemite, just to the south, and Sam said so. “Kinda desolate,” he muttered as they rode into town.

“There is beauty here, too, Samuel,” chided Castiel.

Dean scoffed. “A town is a town. We’ve got a job to do, and it ain’t analyzin’ the scenery.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Where do you wanna start?”

“Simple enough. We find the woman’s bones, salt and burn, and we’ll be finer than frog fur.”

Castiel sighed and drew his horse alongside Dean’s. “There is much more than that. The demon—”

“—will make himself known as soon as he figures out we’re on his tail. Loosen up.” Dean knew his tone was much too short, but he ignored the slight twitch of guilt. He could feel Castiel’s melancholy at his abrupt words, the gloom worming its way around his heart, and he grit his teeth. “And while we’re on the subject, stop doin’ that.” He glanced at the angel.

Castiel’s face remained passive. “Stop what?”

Reproach and sadness and something else, something utterly fervent and reverent, churned together. Dean spoke under his breath so that Sam wouldn’t hear. “You know what.”

Blue eyes pierced his. “My apologies for your vexation, Dean.”

Sam coughed behind them. “There’s the hotel.”

Turned out that most people in town were willing to acknowledge that something strange was going on—but when it came to providing details, they were reluctant. No one seemed inclined to say anything about the man who granted them whatever their heart desired, namely safety from La Llorona, if only they promised him their souls in return. The man who owned the small hotel where they rented a room was the most helpful, directing them to the saloon across the street where “Jessica works in the kitchen. She’s been havin’ troubles the last few days. Scared to walk home by herself.” The gentleman leaned over the wooden counter. “It’s that creature, I tell ya. Pickin’ off our women one by one.”

The Silver Spoon was as busy as any saloon at midday. Men were scattered at the tables and bar for their free lunches, and a sweet and spicy aroma filled the air. Dean’s stomach grumbled, as it was wont to do whenever he was near the possibility of a good meal.

Not every saloon provided free meals in addition to booze, women, and entertainment, but Dean was always glad to save his pennies when he could. _Although_ , he thought as as woman in a too-small corset carried a plate past him, _I wouldn't mind payin’ for a plate of that_.

The trio made their way over to the bar, and Dean hoped to God that Castiel wouldn't interrupt. "Howdy. What can I get ya boys?" asked the barkeep, a bald man who was missing as many fingers as he was teeth.

"Three plates of, uh, whatever it is you fine folks are servin'."

"Sure thing. Have a seat and Connie'll bring it right out to ya."

"Actually, would you mind sendin' Jessica out?"

The barkeep's eyes narrowed. "What business do ya have with Miss Moore? Yer strangers in town, ain't ya?"

"We heard she's been having some problems, sir," said Sam. "We're just here to help."

The man straightened up, running his tongue through one of the gaps where a tooth used to be. Dean restrained a cringe at the sound.

"And what do ya know about it?"

"We're here to put a stop to it, sir," said Dean.

"That so. Well listen here..." the man paused, glancing toward a door that Dean assumed led to the kitchen. "Jessica's a nice girl, ya understand? She ain't no trollop. If that's what yer after, one of the girls out here'll help ya. Or ya can go down to Rosie's. But Jessica's a nice girl."

"We are not seeking prostitutes, if that is what you are insinuating," said Castiel, sounding affronted.

Dean held up a hand. "Listen, sir, we just wanna talk to her. Wherever we're sittin'. Just need to ask her some questions."

The man nodded, his face grim and hostile. "I'll be watchin' ya."

They sat down at the only empty table left, and Dean found his knee bouncing in agitation. He hated this part about hunting—the legwork, the investigation, the uncertainty. He knew Sam liked this bit, and the reading and research that came with it, but it always made him nervous. He much preferred to stare evil in the face, with a gun in his hand. But this, this in-between unpredictability, was for the birds.

A few minutes and two half-hearted attempts by Sam at conversation with Castiel later, a slim young blonde with her hair in a chignon appeared next to Dean. The tray she carried held three steaming plates of beans, rice, and something that was almost certainly pork. "Good afternoon," she said, her voice much stronger than Dean was expecting. She set the plates down in front of each of them abruptly, nearly spilling Dean's into his lap in the process.

"Do you need anythin' else?" she asked, her pretty mouth in a straight line. She held the worn tray in front of her like a shield, and looked for all the world like Joan of Arc marching to the stake.

"Jessica, right?" Dean said. "Won't you sit down?"

"Blanca will need me in the kitchen. It's our busiest time of day, see."

"It will only take a moment," urged Sam. Her eyes slid over to where he sat, and Dean swore he saw her gaze soften.

"It isn't my job to do the servin'," she said. "The other girls do that. I just cook."

"Please," said Sam. "We're here about La Llorona."

Jessica's fingers tightened around the edge of the tray. She thought for a moment before she sighed and pulled out a chair, gesturing at their plates. "Eat up. It'll get cold."

The Winchesters immediately picked up their forks and tortillas, but Castiel simply nudged his plate toward her. "You are hungry," he said. "You have worked hard today. Please, eat my portion."

"Oh, I couldn't—"

"I do not plan on eating it. Someone ought to."

Jessica glanced at the bar, where her boss was busy with customers. "All right, have it your way, stranger." She pulled the plate towards her. "What do you wanna know?"

Dean swallowed his mouthful of chile verde. "We're here to, uh, eliminate, so to speak, this creature that's been botherin' you. We need to know where it appears and when, and if you know anythin’ else about it."

Jessica nodded. "I've seen her twice now, on my way home. Always late at night, after closin' time. I told the preacher about it, but he just told me I oughta be prayin' more. I don't think that helped the others, though. The ones who died."

Dean could feel Castiel's urge to argue that no, that was not how prayer worked. He pushed back against the emotion, attempting to focus on the girl.

"Last we heard, you all had lost, what, three women?" asked Sam.

"Yeah. Elizabeth, Angelica, and Mary Ann."

"But not everyone who sees the ghost dies," he continued.

"No." Jessica bit into her tortilla and chewed slowly. "I'm not sure why they're alive and the girls aren't. But I have a sneaking suspicion I'm next."

"Do you know who she is?" asked Dean.

"The ghost? No. The first time, I didn't see her face. She wears a black shawl over her head. I only realized she was there cause I heard her cryin'. But three nights ago, she looked right at me. She was white as a sheet, I tell ya. But no, I didn't recognize her." Jessica leaned closer over the table and lowered her voice. "Blanca told me that when she was a kid, she heard a Llorona. It was the spirit of a woman whose children had drowned. But Blanca didn't cross the spirit's path, so it left her in peace."

"These vengeful spirits can haunt anyone or anythin', if they have somethin' tyin' them to this world," said Dean through a mouthful of rice. "It can be emotions, it can be a physical object—" he stopped when he felt the sharp point of Sam's boot against his shin. He closed his mouth and swallowed before continuing. "But the real trick is gonna be findin' this lady's bones. Do you know anyone else who's seen her, who might recognize her?"

The girl brushed her hands on her skirt. If she was disturbed by the idea of desecrating a grave, it didn’t show. "The preacher saw her. He told me he hadn't, but I’m certain that he did. He was walkin' home the first night, same as me. And he knows everyone in town." She stood up, much more at ease than when she had arrived. "I better get back to work or Blanca'll tan my hide. If there's anythin' else I can do to help, please let me know. I don't fancy the idea of runnin' into her again."

Sam stood up in respect as she walked away, tilting his hat. Dean chuckled. "She's pretty, ain't she?" he asked his brother.  

Sam shot him a murderous glance. "So we need to find the church."

Dean shoveled the last mouthful of food in. "And where we find a church, there'll be a graveyard."

↞↠

"It was too easy."

"Hmm?" Sam grunted from the small bed next to Dean's.

Dean rolled over, trying to get comfortable on the strange mattress. "I said, it was too easy, dammit."

"Dean. It's two in the morning."

Dean punched the pillow under his head. "It just don't feel right."

Sam's sigh was muffled by the bed sheets. "What doesn't?"

The elder Winchester turned toward the window, looking at the sliver of pale moonlight that slanted through the dusty drapes. They'd found the small church without a hitch, and hadn't even needed to locate the minister. Castiel had reached out with his angel senses, or what have you, and found the grave of one Virginia Heron. They'd waited until after well after midnight before digging up the grave and lighting the remains on fire.

When Dean didn’t reply, Sam groaned. “Just go to sleep. You can be a worrywort when there’s daylight.”

Dean tugged at the chapped piece of skin on his lower lip with his teeth and closed his eyes. He could do this. He could sleep. He could forget that Castiel was just outside the door. He could forget the sinking feeling in his chest every time he thought about Virginia Heron’s headstone. He forced his breath to even out.

The air shrunk around him, tensing with a wintry chill. His eyes shot open. Something was in the room, and it wasn’t the angel. “Sam!” he shouted, lunging from the bed to grab his pistol.

The moonlight dimmed and the room was shrouded in darkness as the ghost swept past Dean. He couldn’t see her, but he could feel the freezing trail of her dress over his bare feet. Sam was thrashing in his sheets, trying to free his legs. “Dean?”

“Duck!” Dean hissed, taking blind aim. He shot, and the rock salt exploded. La Llorona shrieked, dissipating instantly. The dim light slowly returned to the room, and Dean could just make out the shocked look on Sam’s face.

“But we salted and burned her…” Sam said as Dean lit the kerosene lamp. Sam kicked the sheets away and grabbed his own gun.

“It’s the demon,” came Castiel’s voice. Dean turned to see the angel by the doorway. “He must still have control over Miss Heron.”

“Did you know she was here?” Dean demanded.

“No, she came too quickly. But she’ll be back.”

A soft, sorrowful cry came from the corner of the room. “Speak of the devil,” muttered Dean, cocking his pistol. “What do you want, lady?” he asked. The only reply was the telltale sobbing that came with despondent spirits.

Sam picked up the lamp, trying to shed more light, but the creature resolutely didn’t show itself. The room grew colder and colder as they scanned the walls, following the sound of the weeping. Castiel inhaled, quick and sharp. “Dean, behind you!”

Freezing hands clutched Dean’s neck, squeezing harder than a living breathing human. Sour breath floated around his nostrils as he scrabbled at the cold fingers; his pistol fell from his hands as he tried to dislodge her grip. She wailed in his ear as Sam shot, and missed. He gasped for breath, but nothing entered his lungs as she pressed and crushed. The lamplight began to fade into smaller dots, and Sam’s face disappeared.

Then something roared, louder than a freight train, the ghost screamed, and the pressure was gone. Dean fell forward onto his knees, wheezing, blinking away the stinging tears that had started to gather in the corner of his eyes. He felt on the floor for the gun that had dropped, but Sam’s touch stilled him. “It’s all right, Dean, she’s gone. Can you breathe?”

He managed to nod, his neck already sore and stiff. Sam helped him to his feet as his vision became clear again. He looked at Castiel’s wavering image, harsh shadows making the angel’s vessel look much older than it was. Something in Castiel’s hand shimmered and glowed before he sheathed it. “Thanks,” Dean croaked.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to intervene?” Sam asked as he pushed Dean to sit on the edge of one of the beds.

“I am not. But she was sent here to kill you. I could not let that happen. May I?” Castiel stepped closer to Dean, his hand lightly outstretched.

A vague memory of healing touches wafted across Dean’s mind like the scent of of his mother’s perfume, there and gone in an instant. He wasn’t sure why he nodded, but then the angel’s smooth fingers were on his neck, and a tingling spread across his skin. The pain vanished.

“Castiel,” said Sam. “What did you mean about the demon? What demon could control a ghost like _that_?”

Castiel lowered his gaze. “I am afraid that I have not been completely honest with you.”

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Dean growled, standing up, pinning the angel with his gaze. “What else do you know? I swear to God, Cas—”

The angel met his eyes, looking befuddled. “Cas?”

“You tell us what you know, and right lickity split. I ain’t jokin’.”

Castiel paused, looking at each of their faces. The words, when they finally came, were apologetic. “The demon we are hunting is Azazel.”

 

**Part 3:**

That night, Dean dreamt of his mother’s death. It wasn’t something he thought about much anymore, not since John Winchester had passed. For so long, it had been the defining factor in his life—it was why his family was different. The real reason they’d left Lawrence. The driving force that led John to an early grave. Their father had hunted the yellow-eyed demon until his heart couldn’t take it, and he’d expected his sons to do the same.

Sure, they kept an ear open for stories of people dying the way Mary Winchester had—pinned to the ceiling, burning and bleeding. But that trail had gone cold ages ago. Dean hadn’t so much as heard the name Azazel in years. Until Castiel had decided the Winchesters should go to Bodie.

Dean wasn’t sure if he was furious or grateful.

One thing was certain, however. There was no way that just Sam and Dean could take down Azazel, especially if he already knew they were in town. Castiel had already said on several occasions that he could not aid them as he had strict orders not to interfere, which frankly Dean didn’t understand at all—wasn’t that the job of angels? To help humanity?

“We’re gonna need backup,” Dean said to Sam as they got dressed the next morning. Castiel looked up from where he had been leafing through John’s diary. (He had volunteered to keep watch from inside their room as they tried to sleep. Dean tried not to think about how he felt better having the angel close by.)

“Yeah. Think we can send a telegram to Bobby?”

“Might as well. I’m thinkin’ Ellen and Jo might be able to help, too. They ain’t too far, should be able to get here in a few days. If we can lay low until then—”

“I will fetch them,” said Castiel. He stood, his back straight as a fire poker. “I can be there instantly. It will eliminate—”

“They don’t know you and they won’t trust you,” Dean warned, buckling his belt.

“What if we send him with some letters?” Sam suggested.

Dean weighed their options before nodding in agreement. “Fine. Gimme that.”

Castiel handed over the diary. Dean flipped to the back and ripped out a few pages. He and Sam scribbled messages to their fellow hunters, explaining the situation and saying that they could trust the stranger who claimed to be from heaven.

Dean folded the letters into their own envelopes and handed them to the angel. “Get ‘em here as soon as you can.” Assurance flooded into Dean’s psyche, and he tried not to flinch at the connection to Castiel. “Ah, uh...thanks I guess,” he muttered.

Castiel smiled, something a little bit sad, and faded from sight.

↞↠

Though Sam warned against it, Dean ventured outside to pass the time while they waited for Castiel to return with the reinforcements. _I ain’t the type to twiddle my thumbs_ , as he reminded his brother. He didn’t mention that when Castiel had disappeared, the strange bond had vanished as well. Its absence left him feeling strangely empty and alone.

He distracted himself by talking with the hotel owner, who warned against them making so much noise in the middle of the night. He checked on Darlin’ at the stable, and took care of Sam’s horse at the same time. He drank some coffee spiked with whiskey at the saloon across from the hotel, and felt up a pretty dancer with red curly hair. He’d hoped she’d take him upstairs, but she’d just kissed his cheek and told him that she wasn’t the way to get over a broken heart. Whatever that was supposed to mean.

Wandering the streets of Bodie didn’t help much either, but the sun was shining and there was a breeze against his back. He amused himself with counting the number of saloons on Main Street—65, to be exact. Before long, he found himself back at the graveyard. The church was made from the same brown wood as the rest of the buildings in town, but stood apart with its bell tower and air of sanctity. He was considering going inside when he heard cautious footsteps behind him.

“Excuse me.”

Dean turned to see a young Asian man. The kid gripped a worn hat between his hands, and though his clothes were too big on his thin frame, he looked to be about 17.

“Yeah?”

“Are you the hunter who came to help Jessica Moore?”

“What about it?”

“I’m a friend of Jess’s. She told me some people had come to get rid of the ghost. I—I wanted to offer my services, sir. One of the girls who died...well, she and I...uh…what I mean is, my father was a hunter. I’m not, but—”

 _Oh_. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Kevin. Kevin Tran.”

“Never met a Chinaman with a name like that.”

“I—I’m—”

“Listen, Kevin, don’t worry ‘bout the ghost. We ganked her last night. That’s not what we need to worry about right now. Go home, kid.”

“Please, I really do want to help you. I—I know there wasn’t just La Llorona. People—people talk, you know? Even when they’re scared.”

Dean sighed. “Come with me.”

↞↠

It was a ragtag group in the end, but there were seven of them total, and that had to count for something. Castiel had returned the following day with Ellen and Jo Harvelle and Bobby Singer in tow. They’d appeared in Sam and Dean’s hotel room like rabbits out of magician’s hat, scaring the living daylights out of the Winchesters. Dean had grumbled about having to travel to Bodie the old fashioned way, and Ellen had smacked the side of his head for being disrespectful as Bobby muttered “Idjit.”

 _Just like the old days_ , thought Dean as he watched the strange assembly at dinner that evening. Except it wasn’t like the old days at all, not really. Their hunter family had never had an inexperienced civvy around, let alone an angel. But Castiel seemed determined to see the mission completed, and Kevin—well, the kid had stuck to Dean’s side like molasses even since telling the brothers what he knew about the demon. And he wasn’t _utterly_ hopeless, having come from a line of hunters.

So far Kevin could tell, seven people in Bodie had made mysterious deals with Azazel. Five of them had bartered for safety from La Llorona, while two had suddenly struck it rich while panning for gold. “I’m not certain, but—but I think he might be possessing Mr. Brown. He’s the owner of the biggest opium den in my part of town. The only anglo, actually. He—he bought the place from Tson Tin after Tin’s son got sick. He wasn’t ever a bad man, though, but in the last few months he’s been...different.”

The Harvelles, Bobby, and Sam had immediately started conferring logistics and feasible plans of attack. Though shy at first, Kevin listened raptly, providing necessary information about Bodie’s Chinatown and its residents when asked. They didn’t discuss the plans outside of the hotel room, just in case the demon had ears elsewhere. Their dinner conversation consisted of realizations that Ellen’s husband had known Kevin’s father once upon a time, and Dean had to smile at that.

The expression dropped from his face when he caught the eye of the redhead from earlier in the day. _Caroline_ , his brain helpfully supplied. He was suddenly aware of how close Castiel was sitting to him at the table, how stiff his back was, how untouched his food remained. How dry the woman’s lips had been against his skin, and how she has whispered to him of broken hearts. Excusing himself for some fresh air, Dean made a beeline for the batwing doors. Bumming a cigarette from a passerby, he lit up and leaned against the building. The sun had just set, and the sky was a deep periwinkle. He could see the half moon and the beginning scattering of stars. He breathed the smoke deep into his lungs and held it for as long as he could before exhaling.

Castiel was moving inside the saloon. Dean could feel intent, thoughtfulness, and a tinge of regret. He sighed. Since coming back with their hunter backup, the angel had been more careful with letting his emotions through their odd bond, but hadn’t severed them completely. Dean knew he’d asked for it, but was almost wishing he’d kept his words to himself. He’d not realized how much he was becoming attuned to Castiel’s rhythms until they’d suddenly been cut off.

“Dean.”

“Cas.”

Castiel huffed a small breath of laughter. A genuine smile spread over his face, and he reached up to readjust his hat. Dean found himself grinning in reply. “What’re you laughin’ at?”

“It is nothing. That nickname just…reminds me of different times.”

Silence, and a nearly comfortable one at that, fell between them until Castiel cleared his throat. “Why did you come outside?”

“It was just gettin’ a little stuffy in there. I guess I ain’t used to bein’ around so many people.”

“And inhaling smoke is less stuffy?”

Dean flicked the ashes off the end of the cheroot. “Point taken.”

“So…your friends are good people,” Castiel observed.

Dean nodded. “The best. The hunter world may be chaotic and dangerous, but it certainly is small.” Jo’s telltale laughter floated through the door and window, and he knew that Sam had just told one of his jokes. “Bobby and Ellen…they were always there when our father wasn’t. Hunters ain’t like other folk, ya know? Sammy and I, we spent more time at Bobby’s than we ever did in any house, ’cept maybe the Harvelle’s. Jo’s kinda like a little sister, I guess. Family don’t end with blood, Bobby always says—”  He cut himself off. “Apologies; didn’t mean to spill my guts like that.”

“I do not mind,” said Castiel.

The sounds of a piano echoed inside, and someone was singing.  

> _I'll take you home again, Kathleen,_
> 
> _Across the ocean wild and wide._

Dean tapped his foot to the music absentmindedly. “I do have a mind to put some questions to you, though. Do you mind that?”

Castiel frowned. “Dean, I do not think—”

“After the surprise the other night, you owe me that much, don’t you think? C’mon.”

“Fine. What do you wish to know?”

Dean thought for a moment. He had a million questions, but one stood out like no other. “That first night. You claimed that we had a profound bond. But…why? Why can I feel what you’re feelin’?”

Castiel was quiet for a moment. “I should never have told you that. It was against my orders.”

Throwing down the cigarette, Dean crushed it under his heel. “What is it with you and orders? What’re they gonna do to you? Don’t you have any free will?”

Castiel cocked his head. “Free will is for humanity, not angels.”

Dean scoffed under his breath. “Is that what the Good Book says?”

Castiel removed his hat, running his fingers through his sweaty hair in a surprisingly human gesture of frustration before replacing it. “You do not understand.”

“I sure as hell don’t.”

The angel sighed. “It won’t necessarily make things easier for you.”

“Just ‘cause yer fine with bein’ left in the dark when someone says you oughta be? Well, I ain’t. I ain’t fine with that, and I wanna know,” Dean insisted. “Don’t I deserve that much?”

Reluctance simmered between them, and there was something sharp and sad in the angel’s gaze. “So be it.” He reached out with a steady hand, and Dean took a step backward. “Hold still,” Castiel growled low in his throat, and the hunter found himself frozen. The angel’s hand knocked Dean’s hat off, grazing his forehead. Castiel’s hand was cold and warm and rough and smooth all at once, a whole universe in a patch of skin. His fingers threaded into Dean’s locks and gripped his skull. “So be it,” he repeated, and blackness clouded Dean’s vision.

↞↠

_It is a life span in an instant._

_Dean sees himself as a child, before Mary died. He is playing by the well, and nearly falls in. Someone pulls him out. A tall stranger with bright blue eyes._

_He is twelve, and is supposed to keep an eye on Sammy while John and Bobby hunt a wendigo. But he wants to go with his father. He almost leaves Sam alone in the cabin with only a shotgun, but the peculiar young girl with a piercing gaze he finds outside his door tells him to stay put. He does._

_It’s winter, and Jo’s dog is missing. Dean likes her, maybe more than a little bit, and wants to help. He leaves the Harvelles’ and trudges through the blizzard, shouting for Curly. And when he collapses in the snow, lost and cold and terrified, a black man in strange clothing finds him. Touches his cheek and lets warmth course through his body, saving his limbs and his life. Curly is mysteriously returned the next morning, without so much as frostbite._

_Dean is twenty when he learns Castiel’s name, and sees him as he is now: short, but lanky, dressed in a pale tan coat and hat, with stubble on his chin. He doesn’t understand everything that Castiel says, but he knows he owes him his life, and he believes blindly._

_Castiel is there almost every step of the way. He’s there when Dean and Sam grieve the death of their father, and comforts the elder brother in the aftermath of sorrow. He saves his life time and again, and Dean learns that not everyone gets to see their guardian angel. Castiel even lets Sam see him sometimes, and brings him books from every part of the world. After Sam is forced to kill Madison, he lets him know that despite the odds, her soul is in heaven._

_Dean doesn’t admit to himself that he feels something different for the angel until a hunt goes awry and Dean falls into Hell. Castiel pulls him out, and accidentally burns a handprint onto his shoulder. Things change after that._

_Dean is happy for a while, lost in newfound love. Sam doesn’t bat an eyelash, bless him._

_Dean sees himself as he was just two years prior—a short beard on his cheeks and a smile on his lips. The smile fades when Zachariah appears and tells him that Castiel will no longer be part of their lives. That Castiel has violated the sacred relationship between a guardian and its charge. The memories fade, too, when Zachariah places two fingers against Dean’s skull._

 

**Part 4:**

The false memories were gone, and the gaps filled in.

Dean pulled away, scrambling for his shoulder. He touched where the mark should have been; there was nothing there anymore, yet he could feel its phantom heat.

“Cas,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Castiel’s face was apprehensive, but Dean could see the relief in the angel’s eyes as affection flowed through both their veins. “Dean.”

“How—”

“It matters not.”

“It _does._ " Dean cleared his throat to get rid of the threat of tears. “How could I have forgotten you, _everything_ about you?”

“The touch of an angel is a powerful thing. Zachariah placed a veil in your subconscious. I have just removed it.”

Dean chuckled, low and clouded with thick emotion. “Powerful is an understatement, ain’t it?”

The cheeks of Castiel’s vessel flushed red. “Dean,” he whispered. “Do not jest.”

“Sorry. It’s only that…” Dean glanced around them to ensure sure they weren’t being watched. He softened his voice, that it might be muffled by the music inside the saloon. “I didn’t know it until this minute, but damn it Cas, I missed you.”

Castiel’s eyes crinkled at the corners in a smile that was now more familiar to Dean than his own. “I missed you as well.”

“And Sammy? He didn’t know you either.”

“There wasn’t as much to make him forget. Zachariah said it was easier to wipe his mind than yours.”

Shame suddenly flooded Dean, and he shifted on his feet. “Cas, I—I owe you an apology. I have been a right ass to you the last few days.”

Castiel shook his head. “Please do not worry. I felt your underlying guilt even as the words escaped your lips.”

“Profound bond, right?”

Castiel placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder, where he had once claimed him. Dean’s thighs quivered—his very skin remembered the angel’s touch.

“What happens now?” he asked, thinking of angelic repercussions from heaven. Zachariah’s anger had been unpleasant enough the first time, as his newly refreshed recollections reminded him. “Ain’t you gonna be in some kind of trouble?”

“We do not have time to worry about that now, Dean. I brought you here because you must complete your father’s mission.”   

Castiel pulled away, and Dean felt cold in the absence of his touch. He wanted to forget the mission, forget Azazel, forget his friends, drag Cas back to the hotel and keep him in bed for days. But there was an urgency in Castiel’s eyes, and Dean pushed back at his own selfishness.

He took a deep breath and adjusted his Stetson. “Let’s go.”

↞↠

If anyone noticed anything different about Dean and Castiel, they didn’t let on. At least, not the way Dean would have thought.

“For the last time, will ya listen to me?” Bobby barked at his elbow, and Dean refocused his attention on the older hunter.

“Sorry, Bobby. I’m listenin’. I am.”

Sam rolled his eyes, as Bobby pursed his lips somewhere under his coarse beard and huffed. “I know yer nervous, boy, but this might be the only chance we get to catch this son of a bitch.”

Dean hesitated. He wasn’t anxious about Azazel, not nearly as much as he should have been. His thoughts kept roving to Castiel, and what would happen when heaven found out he’d defied their orders. Again.

But Bobby was right. He usually was. Reassurance drifted across the room from where Castiel sat with Ellen, cleaning everyone’s guns, and Dean cleared his throat. “Yessir.”

“All right then. Do ya have the Colt?”

Dean nodded, and retrieved the famed firearm from his saddlebags. Even encased in a piece of Comanche cured leather, the Colt gave off a subtle supernatural energy. Dean unwrapped it, and Samuel Colt’s gun gleamed in the candlelight. Bobby whistled low under his breath. “I ain’t seen this thing since I gave it to your old man.”

Sam touched the inscription on the barrel. “ _Non timebo mala_. I will fear no evil.”

“Does it really work?” Dean asked. “We ain’t never used it. Dad never did either. Said he had to save the bullets, like you told him.”

Bobby picked up the gun reverently. “Trust me, boy, it works. I was only nineteen when Mr. Colt made this gun for my pa, but as they say, a camel never forgets an injury. I’m sure our angel friend can attest to it.”

Castiel glanced at them. “I can. There are only five things in the world that revolver cannot kill. Lucifer is one of the immune. Azazel is not.”

“There’s just one thing that’s been botherin’ me,” Jo spoke up, tossing her long braid over her shoulder. “Isn’t Azazel the ringleader in Hell? So what’s he doin’ masqueradin’ as a crossroads demon?”

Everyone turned to look at the angel. Castiel set the pistol he was wiping down on the table. “Azazel has...plans. He wants to free Lucifer. Heaven has been watching him for some time, but has yet to act. Azazel made his intentions known years ago, but has not found a way to liberate his master.” He paused, and had the decency to look sheepish. “I was given explicit orders not to intervene with Azazel, but once I had found him, I could not stand by. Not when I knew what he had done to...to the Winchester family. At any rate, it is my belief that his current course of action is part of his attempt to free Lucifer. I do not yet understand how, but if Dean is able to kill him…then it will not matter, will it?”

Dean met Castiel’s eyes across the room and swallowed thickly. “Right. Let’s go over the plan one more time.”

↞↠

Bodie’s Chinatown was a knot of buildings running at a right angle from Main Street; most of the structures looked the same as the rest of town, although the Taoist temple stood out like a sore thumb. The Chinese population had their own general stores, saloons, and laundries; Dean noted with some disdain that the white folk avoided Chinatown unless it was a visit to an opium den. “I guess God’s Own Medicine don’t see color,” he said to Sam as they shifted on their feet to keep warm.

It was early in the morning; the sky was yellow and pink with impending dawn, and despite the hour and the chill in the air, Dean’s body thrummed with energy. Their plan wasn’t perfect, sure—demons were tricky bastards, and usually found loopholes no matter what you did—but if Dean could get close enough to shoot Azazel, it wouldn’t matter.

Kevin, Jo, and Bobby had gone on ahead to Mr. Brown’s den a few hours prior, under the guise of late-night opium eating. They were to wait until it was safe, and then paint a devil’s trap. Ellen, Sam, Castiel, and Dean would join them when Kevin extinguished the lamp in the window. Dean was beginning to get impatient when a shadow finally appeared in the frame across the street. The light went out, and Dean rubbed his hands together. “Here we go.”

Leaving the temporary shelter of the boarding house’s porch, Ellen led the way to the den that still bore Tson Tin’s name. The place was well built, with doors that sealed tightly to prevent the escape of fumes; it likely wasn’t confined enough to contain a demon in its incorporeal, smokey form, but Dean noted the solid form with appreciation regardless. Every factor mattered, now.

The opium den was poorly lit, but Dean could see the makeshift beds littered across the floor, heaped with brocade pillows. Only a few of them were occupied—there were more pipes and oil lamps than people. Jo appeared to be passed out on one of the mattresses, an arm thrown over her face. Ellen’s back stiffened, and Dean hoped that the Harvelle daughter was only faking.

Kevin and Bobby sat on the other side of the room, each holding a pipe but neither smoking from it. Bobby’s was half empty, and Dean wondered how he’d accomplished that. Kevin nodded at him, looking a little nervous, before glancing at the back door. According to the kid, it led to Mr. Brown’s private office. The devil’s trap was supposed to be under the thick red rug in front of the door, to capture Azazel as soon as he left his sanctuary.

Before Dean could so much as nod back at Kevin, the door opened, the hinges creaking. A tall man with short blonde hair and a severe face stepped in to the main room, just an inch shy of the carpet. A wide smile spread across his face, a gash in a ribbon. “There are my boys! And lady, of course.” He bowed mockingly to Ellen, pretending to doff a nonexistent hat.  

Dean squared his shoulders, trying to keep his face passive. “Expectin’ us, were you?”

The demon inside Mr. Brown’s body chuckled. “This spot is pretty popular this time of the morning, believe it or not. I always expect customers just as the sun is coming up.” He looked at Castiel. “Now angels, that’s something else.”

Castiel stood rigidly, a soldier who had faced battle before. “Azazel.”

“Oh, you know my name? Well ain’t that dandy? Fine, just fine.” He flashed his teeth, hooking his thumbs into his suspenders. “Can’t say I know yours. But I can see your disgustingly bright face underneath that meatsuit. Are you always so solemn? Aren’t angels supposed to, I dunno, fly around singing praises? Where’s your harp?”

Dean’s hand itched next to his holster, where the Colt waited patiently. He could feel Sam’s eyes on him, silently begging to wait until the demon was trapped before drawing the gun.

Azazel was grinning. “Didn’t think I’d see through your little charade, did you, boys? I felt your presence the moment you crossed the town line. Knew you’d come looking for me. Did you like my little gift? Virginia was such a sweet girl.”

For a moment, Dean’s throat ached with the memory of where La Llorona’s hands had nearly crushed his windpipe. He shook the feeling away, but it was replaced with a cold dread that crept down his spine like dripping water. “Coulda just come to visit us yourself,” he said, sounding more confident than he felt. “Instead of sending tortured souls.”

“And ruin the game?” Azazel shook his head. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“What game?” Ellen bit the words out. “Speak plainly.”

“And give away all my secrets, ma’am? I think not.” The demon’s eyes flashed a bright yellow, and Sam inhaled sharply. Azazel’s gaze snapped to him. “Ah, Samuel. I know it’s disconcerting at first. But when you were just a babe in your crib, you didn’t mind. You liked it. Tried to reach for me. Too bad your mother interfered that night.” His stare glowed eerily in the half-light. “We were having such a grand time.”

“You son of a bitch,” said Dean, his right hand on the revolver.

Azazel tsked. “Language, son. And in front of ladies, too.” He glanced at the mattresses around them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Jo sit up, her face paling when she saw that the demon’s face was trained on her.

The demon took a step toward her and into the trap.

Dean drew the Colt as Bobby, Kevin, and Jo jumped up from the beds. A few of the customers turned their heads lazily, too delirious in their opium hazes to care that a stranger was pointing a gun at the proprietor.

Azazel snarled when he realized that he could not move beyond the perimeter of the carpet. “Hunters,” he growled at Kevin and Bobby.

“That’s my handiwork, I’ll thank you to know,” said Jo, pulling a pistol from somewhere in her long skirts. She leveled it at the demon.

“Females are hunting now?” Azazel scoffed. “What has this world come to? By the way, little girl, that gun won’t do anything to me. Wanna see? Take a shot. It might make you feel better.”

Dean cocked the Colt, drawing strength from Castiel who stood firm and silent. “This one might.”

The demon raised an eyebrow. “How quaint. Samuel Colt’s gun, is that it? Pesky thing.” He waved his hand and the revolver ripped itself from Dean’s grasp, flying across the room and landing at Azazel’s feet. He waved his hand again, and the floorboards began to quake. Something cracked loudly, and Azazel rolled his shoulders. “Ah, that’s better. I never did like devil’s traps.”

Everything fell into chaos.

Castiel shoved Dean behind him, and then everyone was moving at once. Sam rushed toward the gun, only to get a kick in the face from Azazel. Ellen grabbed a fire iron, but was pinned against the wall by an invisible force. Glass was shattering and Dean couldn’t see Kevin or Jo, but Bobby was reciting the Rituale Romanum and the words vibrated in Dean’s ears.

> _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_
> 
> _omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio_
> 
> _infernalis adversarii, omnis legio,_
> 
> _omnis congregatio et secta diaboli—_

In the scuffle, Bobby’s voice was drowned out. Dean saw Azazel’s head twitch and turn before losing the fight to the exorcism spell. Black smoke poured from Mr. Brown’s body and roamed around the room searching for a host. Ellen tore herself away from the wall and swung the fire iron at the smoke. Shrieking sounds filled the small space, and Dean saw his opportunity.

Lunging past Castiel’s protective stance, Dean grabbed the revolver and checked Mr. Brown’s body. The man inside the meatsuit was long dead.

“Dean!” shouted Sam from where Bobby was helping him up. “Look out!”

The demon smoke curled around his body from behind, but recoiled when it sensed the anti-possession tattoo on his chest. As the acrid fumes began to rush back into Mr. Brown, Dean pointed the gun.

Azazel’s eyes radiated, their bitter gold pinning Dean in place. The demon picked himself off the floor. Dean desperately tried to pull the trigger, but his hands were frozen, his finger was frozen, his heart was frozen.

“So much for the righteous man,” said Azazel, licking his lips where blood seeped from a cut. “Right, Dean-o?”

“Wrong.”

Castiel’s arms wrapped around the demon in a vice, and the hold on Dean was broken. The angel’s eyes glowed a deeper blue than Dean had ever seen, and he rumbled something in Enochian. Azazel opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. “Now, Dean!” shouted Castiel.

Dean fired the Colt.

↞↠

_The day the Winchesters leave Lawrence, Dean is eight years old. He is glad to take his little brother by the hand and climb into the back of Daddy’s wagon. He is glad to leave the memory of his mother behind, to forget the whispers that follow their family around town. He doesn’t know yet that Mary will always be in the back of his mind, that his father is driven by obsession to find the yet-unnamed creature who did this to their family. All he knows is that it’s just the three of them in the big wide world. Sammy’s hand is sweaty and sticky in his, but he holds it tight. He thinks about the old woman in the trees behind their house, with the burning blue eyes, who told him not to worry— “angels are watching over you.”_

↞↠

“Argh!”

“Hold still.” Jessica hovered over Sam, stitching the gash on his forehead closed. “You’re lucky this ain’t too deep.”

Dean took another swig of beer as Castiel looked at the girl’s handiwork. “Samuel, I wish you would let me heal you,” said the angel.

Sam grimaced. “I know, and I’m grateful. But I just—”

“He needs it,” Dean interjected. “It’s a reminder.”

“Yeah. Something like that,” said Sam, his eyes on Jessica’s face.

↞↠

“Promise you’ll write?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ellen smoothed a stray hair back into her chignon. “Next time, don’t wait til you’re in the thick of it before lettin’ us know, you hear?”

“I won’t.”

“And Dean?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Don’t let that one go.”

Dean felt his face heat, but he followed Ellen’s eyes to where Castiel stood with Jo.

“No, ma’am. Not if I can help it.”

Later, when they’re alone, he takes Castiel in his arms and kisses him till they’re both burning from the inside out.

↞↠

“What did he mean?”

“Who?”

Dean tightened the girth on Darlin’s saddle, checking the billets. “Azazel. He called me the righteous man. That mean anythin’ to you?”

Castiel stroked Darlin’s nose, feeding her an apple that appeared in his hand from nowhere. “Yes,” he admitted, sounding reluctant.

Dean reached out into their connection, feeling lightly with his thoughts. Castiel’s emotions were prideful, tinged with melancholy. “You gonna tell me?” he asked.

The angel shook his head. “I do not think it is wise.”

Dean opened his mouth and closed it again. He wanted to say _what’s the harm_ , but something stopped him. Instead he said, “You ever been to Los Angeles?”

“The City of Angels?” Castiel smiled. “No, I have not.”

“We are _not_ going there again,” said Sam as he came up behind them, laden with their heavy saddlebags. “Last time, Dean spent three days in a poker game, and another three in a brothel.”

“The Southern Pacific line goes there now,” Dean ignored his brother. “It’s a real nice town.”

“Dean—”

“The best oranges you ever ate,” he continued. He winked at Sam as he took some of the satchels and loaded them onto the horses.

Castiel paused, looking wistful. “ _Tapuzim_. When the world was formed, I was there that day. The day we created trees that bore fruit.”

“C’mon Sammy,” said Dean. “How about that hustlin’ I promised you?”

Sam sighed. “I hope you mean it this time. I just want a solid night’s sleep.”

“Sam?”

The men turned to see Jessica at the edge of the livery. The younger Winchester glanced at his brother. “Um. I’ll be back. Just a minute.”

As Sam went to say goodbye to Jessica, Dean turned to the angel. “Are you really gonna come with us?” he asked.

Sincerity flooded his chest as Castiel fixed him in his gaze. “Do you doubt me, Dean?”

“Well you, uh...ain’t told me what the mugwump upstairs told you.”

“I will take care of Zachariah. I am not leaving you again, Dean Winchester.”

Dean plucked a piece of  hay from a nearby bale, and stuck it in his teeth. “Good.” He inspected all the straps one last time before swinging into the saddle. He watched as Castiel removed his tan coat and tucked it into one of the bags before mounting his own horse.  

As they rode out of Bodie, Dean took a breath of fragrant summer air deep into his lungs. The road beneath Darlin’s feet felt more like home than ever, and he grinned at Castiel. Pursing his lips together, he whistled. It was only a moment before Sam sang along.

> _I'll take you home again, Kathleen,_
> 
> _Across the ocean wild and wide,_
> 
> _To where your heart has ever been_
> 
> _Since first you were my bonnie bride._  

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this little story, I would be happy to hear from you. 
> 
> The blog for which I work is currently fundraising for our trek to San Diego Comic Con 2016. Please check out our cause and incentives [here](https://www.generosity.com/fundraising/the-collective-goes-to-comic-con/x/7038972). The more money we get, the more inclined I will be to write a smutty coda in this wild west 'verse! You can also request your own prompt fill!


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